He ran back across the street to the little park, clutching his
shovel. He jammed his head into the centerpiece and tried to see which
way the tunnel had curved off when it turned, but it was too dark, the
dirt too loose. He pulled himself out and took the shovel in his hands
like a spear and stabbed it into the concrete bed of the wading pool,
listening for a hollowness in the returning sound like a man thudding
for a stud under drywall.
The white noise of the rain was too high, the rolling thunder too
steady. His chest heaved and his tears mingled with the rain streaking
down his face as he stabbed, again and again, at the pool's bottom. His
mind was scrambled and saturated, his vision clouded with the humid mist
rising off his exertion-heated chest and the raindrops caught in his
eyelashes.
He splashed out of the wading pool and took the shovel to the sod of the
park's lawn, picking an arbitrary spot and digging inefficiently and
hysterically, the bent shovel tip twisting with each stroke.
Suddenly strong hands were on his shoulders, another set prizing the
shovel from his hands. He looked up and blinked his eyes clear, looking
into the face of two young Asian police officers. They were bulky from
the Kevlar vests they wore under their rain slickers, with kind and
exasperated expressions on their faces.
"Sir," the one holding the shovel said, "what are you doing?"
Alan breathed himself into a semblance of composure.
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